


you know what they say about guys with long teeth...

by cumslutkenobi



Category: What We Do in the Shadows (2014)
Genre: Bloodplay, Gender-neutral Reader, Long Tongues, Oral Sex, Other, monster fucking mood, my first reader insert fic, sometimes you just wanna fuck an arcane being, this is so badly written, uhhhhh, vague references to ableism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-20 00:32:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12421371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumslutkenobi/pseuds/cumslutkenobi
Summary: I took some liberties with vamp anatomy but yeah. You work on a boat post-WW2 and there’s some interesting customers. I know nothing about shipping or seafaring in the 1940s so please ignore errors.





	you know what they say about guys with long teeth...

It's not a very big vessel, your cargo isn't particularly huge or particularly valuable, just antiques. There isn't that much to do other that loading and unloading, cleaning what needs to be cleaned.

The captain is a quiet man who loves easy money, safety and privacy. When a venture is safe enough, he jumps on the opportunity. You know he isn't greedy or malicious, just frugal. Times have been hard since you were able to recognise that they were hard, so you understand his desire for something more reliable than the Mark and more universal than ration slips.

Just as he understands why you offered your services when the war started. He didn't ask questions, and you didn't give answers, even when you felt like companionship was all that would keep you from running yourself through with a ceremonial sword. You spend a chunk of your wages on flimsy, second hand books that keep you company for the most part. Your favourite are pulpy Gothic novels the captain rolls his eyes at when he sees volumes pile up outside your door.

The skeleton crew set up kept you both busy and out of each other's way, the only thing that really disrupts your flow are the occasional travellers who want private passage to the other end of the world. It helps this time that the customer has an antique to start off with. Some kind of large stone slab which presumably has artefacts inside. The letters the captain receives broach the subject of transporting this huge sarcophagus; when the captain mentions our cleaning service, the customer responds asking if there's any way we could escort the cargo himself.

A little more money is exchanged so the ship leaves a few hours after dusk. The captain is a little annoyed with the scheduling, but the money seems to be coming from a reliable enough source, the advance payments all checking out.

You're leaning on the railing of the place you've come to call home over the past six years when you see him. A pair of little round sunglasses and a ratty, old fur coat, head cocooned in a shawl, darkened by the shadow of the massive slab. It's being dragged behind him on a trolley, and you nearly laugh at the looks the longshoremen are casting his way. You glance, eyebrows raised, towards your boss, who looks a little amused himself. He descends down the gangway, followed by you, and offers a pudgy, well worn hand towards the customer.

The customer looks up and down the both of you before shaking the outstretched hand, then shoving his hands in his pockets and tilting his head towards the general store near where you're anchored.

"I'm just going to pick some supplies up." He mutters, before nodding and retreating.

You grab a palette and using both of your support on one side, you lower the heavy stone onto it, transferring the palette to pulleys and hoisting the cargo up. At some point, the customer gets back and watches you work, flask in hand. He seems appreciative, though of the labour or the labourers you're not sure.

Saying thanks, he follows the two of you up the plank when you're done, actually helping you get the cargo back on the trolley.

He then asks where he'll be staying with the cargo, as you guide him toward the safe hold, the only locked door on the ship. He gives you a cursory thanks before slamming the door shut, with the sarcophagus on his side. You and the captain are left sweaty and tired out from the encounter.

Both of you set about preparing to sail.

It's been a few weeks now and the customer is odd. His name is Deacon, you saw on his documents, and he might be a little mad. From all the raucous discussion that can be heard in the wee hours of the morning, the traipsing, the sleeping through the day and the occasional heavy groans, there must be something wrong. Maybe he's the son of a noble, that had been shut up in an asylum by his family until the post war confusion allowed him to migrate with what few heirlooms he had.  
The captain listens to your theories with a plain, bored look and tells you to go back to your pretentious poets and stop harassing paying customers. You huff and resolve to observe a little more carefully.

You happen to catch Deacon in the moonlight, sleeping on the top deck, when you start your morning rounds. His arms are folded over the top of his chest and he looks so peaceful and still. So still you wonder if he's dead. As you approach, you see that he's not moving. Oh God, has the bastard killed himself?  
You jump to his side and place a hand on his shoulder. Before you can even ask if he’s alright, he violently shakes, rolling over to one side. He comes back around on his hands and knees, hissing.

What the fuck?

"You alright here, sir? I saw you out and I didn't mean to frighten you but you were so still I got worried. You alright? Please sir, I didn't mean to offend-" it all comes out in an apologetic stream, his face becoming less aggressive and more casually annoyed.

"What time is it?" He barks, cutting you off, thankfully.

"Uh, I'd say it's about four, sir."

He blinks and squints up at the sky.

"Oh, right. Well, thank you for waking me. I needed that." He says solemnly, patting you awkwardly on the shoulder and going down to his cabin without another word.

Well ok.

You don't see him for any other nights, but you do hear the one sided arguments become louder and louder, catching something along the lines of, "I told you to slow down, what will we do now?" and "What, do you want the captain to know?" and "How will we get there then?".

The following night you were about to retire early and present the weird comments to your captain, when you spot an albatross resting the helm of the ship. There haven't been any in the sky today and the sudden proximity sends a chill that rattles through your bones, before the animal takes off in a spiral into the sky.

You stand there, frozen for a while, scared of what might happen if you go below deck and face Deacon or whatever he's hoarding in that tomb of his. So you wait for hours, shivering in the cold but petrified to move.

You swear that when you get to New Zealand you'll open a bank account so you can leave the job early and get a less eerie line of work.

You are getting tired, though no less scared. Just now it's a more disjointed kind of fear, without the energy to dismiss everything that you perceive of as unusual. It is in this state that you fall into an uneasy haze. You hear the hatch from below deck creak open but you are too tired to react and when you feel cold, bony arms wrap around your shoulders, you melt into them with nervous whimpers. You are blacked out by the time you're down the stairs.

When you awaken, you are upright and there is a shadowy presence in the room.

You cry out, stumbling forward and on to your hands, scuffing them on the cold ground. You frantically look up and see a tall figure, face obscured by shadow.  
"Sir? Deacon, Sir?" You say hopefully.

The figure makes no noise, merely remaining in the shadows. It is not Deacon. Much too tall, bald if the silhouette is to be taken into account. So not the captain either.

"Who are you?" You say in a low voice.

You're too scared to move and the figure is too stoic. For clues, you look around the room, noticing that you just fell out of the giant coffin. Fucking perfect.

You then look at your hands, rough yet tacky. There's blood on them. Absentmindedly you wonder when you cut yourself, before you see the crumpled corpse propped up against the wall.

Your mouth agape, you let out a harsh, staggered breath and squint up into the darkness. It's not human. It's a creature from the pictures or your damned Gothic novels.

When the creature sees you look at it with such depth, it finally steps forward. It's boniness is the first thing that you see; the skull-like visage, then the ghostly pale eyes and finally its five front fangs.

Somehow its gaze is both curious and impassive, like examining a particularly vibrant moth bumping against a window, trying to get at firelight inside.

It suddenly seizes you, drawing you up by your lapels and letting its eyes appraise your body. It's a cannibal, a damned vampire and its going to eat you. The idea fills you with fear, for obvious reasons.

But the proximity and the thing's evident strength fill you with something else.

Something that makes the ancient, alien thing tilt its head.

You have no idea how it can detect that, or whether can successfully interpret it, but if Deacon's one-sided arguments, that now make so much sense, say anything, it understands human language.

"Are you going to kill me?" You ask in a shaky voice.

It looks away and squints contemplatively, like it isn't really sure. This drives you.

"If you are, can I, uh, make a final request?" You'd be really flunking the confidence on this one if you were trying to impress anything human. You expect this question will catch the thing off guard.

It squints again, before nodding, almost cautiously.

You draw in a breath to steel yourself, before raising one hand to one of its shoulders and stroking your thumb along there for approval. There is no verbal assent, but the creature looks more intrigued than impassive, so you hook a leg around its hips, then another.

It draws in a snarling breath that scares you, before it slides its long, gnarled hand down to waist, then another. Wow those are some sharp nails.

This is fucking happening, you think before you press a soft kiss to its mottled cheek and grind thickly into its bony hips.

Rasping, clawing, the thing leaves holes in your clothes, nails biting through to graze the soft flesh of your hip. At first you think you've angered it, only for it to thrust upwards into your grinds. You let out a surprised little gasp and continue, it lending its strength to keep you in place. It moves like no one you've ever been with before, each move deliberate and tight, even when you feel something under its stiff, long coat grow hard. You huff a dismayed laugh punctuated by a particularly slow roll of your hips.

As soon as you know it, you're being slammed, hips first onto the floor with the kind of speed you would not expect from the thing. It lacks an appropriate amount of grace as your head bounces on the floor, cushioned by a too thin pile of hay. You groan from the disorientation, a growl coming from your monstrous paramour.

It rips at your bottoms, leaving them in a scrap pile, shirt rucked up to your belly as it descends. You are just about to twist away from its teeth around the hot, sensitive mess between your legs when it stops short. Tilting your hips up and extending a hideously long tongue from its jaw, its eyes do not meet yours, which stare at the thing's bony cheeks as they hollow.

The tongue seems to be secreting some viscous slime, a drop falling onto your groin. Before you have time to process any of these biological revelations, the monster pries your cheeks apart and takes a broad, cold lick across your hole.

You shudder with a loud and high pitched noise of vulnerability and it wastes no time taking swipes, lathering it up. Coiling like a tentacle, the motion of its tongue is languid and slow, maybe teasing, maybe getting you ready. Your hands scrabble for purchase at the ground below you, nails catching on more sodden hay. The slime burns like a mild vapour rub, cold at first, then warming. It's so weird, but you want more, canting up toward the creature.

Pressing in a little closer, it rolls the flat of its broad tongue along your hole once more, before dipping the pointed tip inside. It corkscrews past the tight rim with a slight, stretching rub. It has been a while since you've had anything inside you and the monster's tongue isn't small. Biting your lip, you wrap a shaking hand around it's bald skull and rock your hips as it delves deeper.

The rhythm picks up again as it buries its tongue further into you, fangs encasing your view of it between your legs. Your breathing is terse with a tightness in your chest when it curls up inside of you, tearing staccato grunts from you with each pound against your inner walls. Manipulating your body like a puppet, it manages to find the spot that makes you moan low and long, hitting it at a rapidly building pace.

Your thighs tense spasmodically and you reach a down by the monster's chin to touch what it has neglected, only for it to make a ragged noise in the back of its throat. Hastily withdrawing, you run your knuckles along your temple, brow furrowed. It huffs and unfolds some of the tongue from inside of you, sliding out with considerable mess. The broad, flat stem of its appendage rubs along the entire seam of your privates, its pointed tip still inside of you.

You have no idea how something can have that many points of articulation.

You don't even think about it.

Your eyes just roll back in your head when it flexes against and inside of you. You can't even feel where the two pleasures are separated, you just know that this hellish thing has put you in heaven.

Not even its iron grip can stop you from moving into the strokes, chasing that sensation. It scratches deeper into the meat of your thigh, drops of blood welling up around the talons. A strangled little scream comes from you and you wrap your other hand around its pointed ear, thumb resting against its temple.

Pulling its head towards your arching hips, you ride your climax out, it's motions slowing when your thrusts stutter. Your hair is sticking to your forehead and you're panting from exertion but you've never felt this good. Snaking its tongue out of your body and back into its mouth, the creature coaxes another moan from you.

"T-thank you." You wheeze.

You fling your forearm over your eyes, vaguely realising you're probably going to get eaten now, if it doesn't fuck you first.

Surprisingly it does neither, opting instead to return its tongue to your body, this time lapping at the trickles of blood on your legs and stomach and sucking at the particularly deep wounds. It has far more control that you would have expected, an almost parental, caring way of cleaning you up. There's a small, low noise from the back of your throat, still bathing in the afterglow as it's fangs gently scrape your inner thigh.

You're so caught up in this strange tenderness that you don't notice the footsteps approaching, only having time for panic when you here the key in the door.

"Petyr?"

Deacon's pale face is contorted in surprise, seeing you with your bare legs hooked around those broad shoulders. Your own face must be a sight as you drag fraught fingers through your hair, cheeks hot and mouth agape. Petyr turns, impassive again, towards Deacon.

No one moves for a few seconds until Deacon looks to the ground and shuffles his feet with a grimace.

"I really didn't need to see that."


End file.
